M'am, your daughter isn't into men, she's into me
by Marionette Ame
Summary: Raskreia has been waiting for her witch to grow and finally summon a familiar since the girl was born. Now, after eighteen years, she hears the call. (RozaRask. Witch AU)


Eighteen years. That's how long Erga Kenesis di Raskreia has spent perched high up on this cliff (a position that can only belong to a being of blood as ancient, as potent, as _powerful_, as her. a position for the strongest, and so none come up her way. none want to. only fools would disturb her), watching the ongoings of the gates below.

There are countless of her people coming and going, and never is there a lull in nights like these where the moon is full, the stars in place, and vigils lit to guide them through. Other times they just stand there or talk or laugh or play, waiting for the grand slate doors to open. It's not only that which they wait for though. No. Of course it isn't. They wait for a voice too.

Perhaps it will be loud, joyous, or a soft threat, or there will be words in the sky in place of it. Maybe it will be a tug instead, or maybe it will throw someone on the floor, violent. But there _will_ be a _voice_– even if it does not speak– and there _will_ be _someone_ (not everyone. why would it be everyone? it would be strange if all could hear the call, even if it be from child or old. only some; often just one. but never none) who hears it– even if not with their ears– and they will go.

Many times there will be plenty who hear. In those times most who do stay back when they see some other move towards the gates. So there may be two, a few, who meet. Perhaps they talk it over, perhaps they simply stare, but always they reach an agreement as is their way. Whether that means that only one goes through, two, or a few... No option is taboo.

They who hear see something through the gates: lights in the mist, a grassy field, mayhap a stone plateau. Regardless, it will not be the cold darkness (one that warns away the unwanted, the unchosen. one that whispers of worlds none would wish to see, to be of, and if you look too deep. if you stare into the depths. fear grips you by the shoulders, by the hips, by the knees and ankles, and kisses you down your head and back and legs, and you never look in them again when he's gone) of those who don't. For even the warmth of ink or the desolate pain of the dark and cold are different.

Raskreia has seen countless scenes over the years, and averted her eyes even more times from them, even when they weren't of that cold darkness, for fear that she may be tempted to go through. And so she's seen all those who go too, so many that there is not a single feature that ties them all together. None, that is, except that they are all her people.

That is not all that has entered her eyes though. She has also seen those who have come back and returned here to wait once more, and some who have come back and left this place with tears and without, or those whose horns or scales or wings have come back but not them. Some who waited here more than once did not go through the same call they did before for they did not want to, but those ones were rare. Most awaited the it (and often they would receive it, and be the only one for it is they only who were meant to be called, and leave with joy again. but just as often they would wait and there would be a call they would not hear which would make others pity them. these ones were left in despair, perhaps denial, but they would return to their place of birth or take some other call, or fling themselves into the cold darkness for death is preferred to abandonment. then there were those who waited in vain, for it was not possible for that same call to come again, yet they waited and waited till their deaths).

Many times, her family and friends would visit her as she sat here on the hard rock of the cliff. Her fathers (both of her people. one with beautiful hair that gleamed gold in the light and blood red flames like her own, the other with the same dark hair as hers and sad eyes and eyes and eyes and eyes) would frown at her and suggest calls to answer, her father's mother would shake her head and sigh, ancestors would try to convince her to choose a call, to not waste time but, it was they who did not understand. Even Ignes, with her adorable giggling, but not so adorable way of attaching herself to things, and a call of an angel's harmony and sunshine, and Kei with his silence, not questioning her decision, didn't understand. Not like her uncle (with eyes and eyes and eyes and eyes like her father) who had a locket with one of his dark curls and a lock of white-gold around his neck, or the mother of her father's mother whose crown of flames was of auburn instead of their typical red, or even of Karias who would call her actions romantic.

She was waiting.

It was strange that they didn't realise this for eighteen years ago the presence of a witch being born was felt. Usually this wasn't strange. Witches and warlocks were born all the time, they weren't that uncommon. This was different though. It was such a big event that all of her people had stopped for a moment and basked in the energy it had brought to their world. In the way that the moon and stars were just the slightest bit more silver and cream. The way that the wind was closer to being just the right temperature, and the way words came out just a little sharper, easier to understand.

And as the gates open once more, doors swinging open smoothly despite their weight, as pain explodes under her skin and makes her nerves scream, she smiles for the first time in eighteen years. What a strange scene. Raskreia can see a setup that looks something out of the book of some ignorant human. A ritual with symbols smeared on the floor in red and lighting dim except for dots that she supposes were flames on candles. It's adorable.

Mesmerised, she's lost in studying every detail, even the scent of leather and dust filled books doesn't escape her as they waft up a gentle summer breeze. Truly, the perfect way to spend the night of the Summer Solstice.

As moments pass her people started to speak in hushed whispers, feathers ruffling, claws clacking against scales and beaks and rock. It gets louder and louder and louder. They're worried. Worried that none heard the call. Worried that the gate will close without anyone going. Worried that on the other side, a soul will be left alone, hopeless.

So she spreads her wings wide.

They bathe the entire area in red and gold. Not a single speck is free from her hues, not even the shadows, and her people go silent. They must, for she is of the empress' lineage, and they are thankful for not only her light but, also for the heat that fills the room. The scaled ones love it most, and her smile gets the tiniest bit sweeter as she sees a girl stretch out to bask in her glory. She loves her people, and so she jumps, swooping down, down and through the gates, and into the arms of her witch.

"When I said you could do anything to prepare for your coming of age, I didn't mean that you could go and guarantee yourself an insulted familiar."

Rozaria laughed as her mother grimaced at the changes to the attic. It was true that she had gone all out to make the place look old and dilapidated but, nothing was _actually_ broken. The shredded cloth and curtains were all the result of one of her mother's cousin's familiars wreaking havoc, and the shards of glass were from the crystal balls that Lusar always ended up dropping. _Really_. You'd think he'd know better than to mess around with his sister's things after the third time but he was just that much of an idiot. He was lucky Seira adored him and didn't mind his clumsiness. And she was lucky too because the way the shards glinted, reflecting all sorts of colours in even with the warm orange hue, were stunning.

"But you said I could do anything mama. You can't go back on your word now."

"She won't." Rozaria looked to the door and smiled at the short suit-wearing woman. Mother had returned from her trip? Then Ludis must be here too, she had missed her other brother, as adorable as Emrys was. Her mother walked towards them, taking mama's arm and leaning into her. "Sarathiel keeps her promises. Even to a brat like you."

"_Mother_," she whined, "you're not on mama's side are you? What's wrong with my spell? I put decorations up and wrote down some charms to make it easier is all."

Sarathiel snorted at that, glancing at the red on the floor and the dim atmosphere. "Of course Azrael agrees with me."

"I don't actually." Sarathiel shot Azrael a betrayed look at that, making both her and Rozaria giggle. "As long as it's not hurting anyone it's fine. Her familiar will need to know her for her anyway, so it's a good head start."

"Yeah, exactly!"

Her mother sighed and rolled her eyes, muttering about traditions as she left. Rozaria didn't know why she bothered, she was the only one who cared for them so she should just use them for her own spells and leave everyone else alone.

Azrael went to follow after her. "I'll send Ludis up in a bit baby. He's been longing for you."

Ah? Longing? So he really had imprinted on her. That was sweet of him. It gave her a fuse to her step as she added a few more symbols to the ground with the paint set she'd stolen from Lusar's castkit. It was a pretty box and all the paints had glitter mixed which didn't show just right but… She blew out the candles with a wave of her hand.

With the sudden darkness came everything she had written in red slowly lighting up, glowing almost like thousands of fireflies in specific clusters or the neon advertisements of downtown. They flickered too; the enchantments whispered to them under the northern stars starting to whisper back. Lusar truly was talented, he didn't waste his money on glow-in-the-dark paints, making his own instead that had voices of thousands of hushed deities screaming from freedom. It was right up her alleyway of weird.

"Roza, that's messed up."

She turned on her heel, eyes lighting at the voice. The man standing there with a lantern (an old thing, an artefact he'd dug up on one of his trips with mother. it had called out to him he had said once when she asked him why he would dig something up. she hadn't questioned him after that. it wasn't her place. when something chose someone, you didn't ask why because that meant it saw something in them. and why wouldn't a spirit acknowledge her brother?) in hand… her beloved elder brother. He was smiling at her, eyes gentle, and she rushed to him for a hug. Of course it was a hug. He knew it too and didn't drop his lantern (that would upset the spirit inside. she always cried when that happened so he'd learnt fast to balance himself. it was impressive, even more now than before though some would think a child of eight years being so quick on his feet was more so) as he returned the action, face buried in her chest.

"You've grown even taller than before. That's unfair." Her brother pouted and she giggled.

He was just as adorable as Emrys! Even if he was older, he still had such squishable cheeks that she could barely resist them. And the way he styled his hair! Some thought he was trying to be emo but she knew it was just the result of him being cute as always!

"I take after mama, you know that Ludis. You should have taken after her too if you wanted to be taller."

"That's not how it works," he said, crouching to read some of the charms she had drawn. He traced them carefully, his fingers a sliver of air away from the paint as he did, skilled enough to avoid getting the wet red all over them.

"Sure it's not." That was always her answer to things she didn't agree with. Like when Lusar would say something stupid about explosions or Seira would write a spell down wrong. Or when mama would blame herself for Emrys not being able to handle crowds.

Ludis didn't reply, too absorbed in the words and sounds and sights she'd woven in. The way they layered over each other, worlds over and under worlds, all a change from the screams of Lusar's deities. There was a soothing blue crash against a sandy beach, crackling flames on a faerie circle. There were cold winds tugging at your hair and smoke choking you, bringing you near death. There were many but not enough because her brother raised his head after only an hour, when she had meant it to last a whole night (a passing of one moon to the next, of dawn and dusk melding into one as the sun danced with her lover in the skies of spring and summer, autumn and winter, closer and closer and closer, and apart again as the cycle repeated. a fault they'd created out of ignorance and of a warm smile hiding misery and lies._ oh!_ if only they had married! then they wouldn't be doomed to death when they finally met but that was fine too for them for it meant at least they would have one moment. their first and last; the beginning and end of a romance whose courting was of pining and long gazes averted by mirrors and standing in shadows. whose courting ended in a breathless kiss where one looked forward to being burnt alive and the other consumed her fully) through.

He doesn't say anything as he looks at her with that warm smile (like that of his cooking, of how he loves her so wholly, so deeply, she can't do anything but return it, beloved brother of her heart and soul, her heart belongs to his hands and ribs and flesh, as his did to her skull and legs and blood), sitting down beside her. There they wait for the moon to come high then go, so that it may shine upon her charms and array. She doesn't need to call upon a familiar with her mouth because she's already set all this up, bit she pities the wasted opportunity.

Her coming of age, her first familiar (perhaps she will have more. perhaps she will never take another. perhaps she will let this one go and remain without one like Ludis), and she isn't calling for them with desperate whispers. How boring. She wants to chant verses but, they're all in red, and so she can't. An oversight.

Still, as the red glimmers when the shine of the moon lays eyes on each drop, as moments pass by and nothing comes, as her array bursts into flames, crackling, she's glad. For if she had been chanting, if she had absorbed in the summoning, if she had her eyes closed and opened like the ancient magus queens of the past, she would have surely fallen over as her familiar flew into her, wrapping her (because how wouldn't she be able to tell that her familiar was a woman when she was this close?) arms around Rozaria.

"_Mine_," the woman half murmurs half growls, wings and feathers and crown of fire trailing, blazing, behind her. And so Rozaria knows she'll be her familiar forevermore.

"What's your name?" she asks, even as the phoenix keeps on holding her in this humanoid form.

She's pretty, with eyes the same red as her flames, and that dark hair. And warm. So very warm (a good type. the sort that's of sitting by the campfire or staying under your blankets on a cold winter day or a mug of hot milk, and definitely not the sort that's of being burnt or burnt or burnt). Ludis is fanning himself, a cooling array carved onto the spine of the dark wood. He has more fans too, with all sorts of arrays, because he goes off of practicality and that means that no matter the situation he always has something on hand.

"Erga Kenesis di Raskreia."

That was _long_. Not the longest she'd heard but she'd just call her by one of them.

Raskreia stared at her, looking cute with the way she had her head tilted just the slightest, and Rozaria grinned. Was she expecting her to say her name too? Cute.

"Raskreia? A beautiful name for a beautiful woman-" that makes her blush and Rozaria's smile is just a bit brighter- "I'm Rozaria Elenor, your witch."

"My... witch?" Raskreia smiles. "Yes. You are my witch, and I, your familiar."

_She hungers for her witch, for her flesh and touch and love and she doesn't restrain herself. She takes and takes and takes but it's fine because her witch begs and moans and cries for more, takes her hands and guides her flush against her, skin against skin, and looks at her with pleasure drowning her eyes. And she makes her witch writhe and squirm and gasp, ruining her again and again and again, leaving her exhausted with her hair as loving of her skin as she is. Leaving her with her breath heavy and voice hoarse from calling her name endlessly._

_She takes her witch under sun and moon. Under both once, and under neither often. In dark and light and dim and times when they flicker or come and go like with neon or fireworks or fireflies or herself. And she lets it be natural but she doesn't mind making it not so she can see the way her witch's eyes light up, and the way her voice is louder, brighter, of that strange yet lovely tune, before she takes her hand or waist or lips, and makes her call her name again. Whether it be in grass or rocks or sea, or in the safety of her sheets, she takes her._

_And she loves her. Adores her. Worships her. For she is her witch and all of her she devotes for such a being._

_How lucky she is, and she studies the bare body of her witch as she sleeps, that her love is returned. _

Raskreia rests in Rozaria's lap, curled up small like a feathered ball, or quetzalcoatl but so much tinier, in her proper form. It's nice, because it means she's easily covered (like in a hug or under a towel. maybe when Rozaria is feeling cheeky and she tucks her under her shirt against her) and still can shoot out at a moment's notice to incinerate any who dare be a threat to her witch.

It was in her proper form that she first met her father and uncle (with their eyes and eyes and eyes and eyes) in this world not of her people. The day then had been bright, light blinding as the sun shone without hindrance of puffs of white or grey. She had been perched on her witch's forearm as she was dressed like a tavern maid. It had been glorious. To walk amongst people of old with their heavy skirts, with layers of cloth she actually knew, with activities of jousting and sword fighting; she had missed it. It was a shame it was an uncommon event in this world.

There Rozaria had passed by a woman with white-gold locks, and she had seen them (in humanoid forms, almost identical except her uncle's hair was curly and her father's wasn't. well that and her father had a resting sad face just like their witch knight did) on each of her arms, holding onto her as if she was their lifeline. And she was for her father dealt badly with crowds, fearing the worst in that he may get lost or taken or killed and so always in hand with someone, though she'd only seen it with her father and uncle and their mother and her own self before. Her uncle too saw her as such, but differently. She was a lifeline because his heart belonged to her (it showed in the way his hands on her were gentle, barely there, fluttering as not to hurt her, and in how his body made space for hers. it appeared in how he followed half a step behind and the fact that all his eyes were on her instead of on the crowd, and in the locket around his neck that matched the one around hers) so she was _his_ witch knight in the same way that Rozaria was _her_ witch.

As they had passed by Raskreia had spread her wings and taken off, circling around them twice before she had landed on her father's arm. A quick kiss to her head and she had returned to Rozaria, keeping in mind how her father had cradled her so close. She had missed him. Until then she hadn't realised it, but she had missed her fathers. Missed how they would worry for her, reminding her to eat and to rest. Fussing over her and messing up her hair. Hugging her and dragging her to sleep with them so that they were a giant bonfire in a cold spot.

Meeting them then only made things worse. For now she can sense that emptiness within her that wants for them. At all times her chest aches as golden blond hair wraps up her vision and gentle hands hold her proper form, cooing over her in tongues. Phantom eyes watch her and she finds herself jumping at every corner, not from fear, but with hope that she'll meet the one to whom they belong. None of it is real, she knows that, yet she dreams, and she wishes.

Only when her Sarathiel approaches with her familiar (a tiger of white and black with wings of the same stripes. despite her grace and mighty figure, her muscles under her soft fur and her capability of flight, Kei's mother is a timid woman. too anxious even to take a humanoid form in the company of any beside her father and son, and so she walks cautiously, always touching Sarathiel, and Sarathiel always with a hand on her back) does Raskreia raise her head, her crown blazing to life as she does.

"Mama? You need something?" Rozaria smiles at her mother and her familiar, a hand going to stroke the feathers of her own.

"You're twenty. When are you getting married?"

Rozaria's hand stops in her plumage. "Aren't you rushing a bit mama?"

Sarathiel rolls her eyes and speaks with an annoyed tone, one that annoys Raskreia in turn, "It's been two years since you've come of age and had your familiar. That's enough time don't you think?"

"Two years is barely anything. I don't understand what you're going on about."

"Plenty get married days after, sure they have their contracts but many times they've never met before. And you're going to wait longer?"

Ah. How she adores her witch and her love for the world. For her mother she speaks so calm even when not. Raskreia cannot say the same for herself. Her crown is burning hotter and her eyes are on Sarathiel, making Yali flinch and sit at her witch's feet, cowering. Her anger seethes, for she hates this suggestion. Is an heir really all she cares for? How dare she suggest that Rozaria get married when she does not want to, for the purpose of power or connections or something else equally worthless, _and to someone other than Raskreia_. If not for being of love to her witch, she would have burnt her.

"I don't want to though."

"Really? Then stop staring at every man that crosses your path and maybe I'll-"

"Excuse me." Raskreia's words are polite, and so is her tone and smile as she stands in front of her witch to protect her. She's heard enough of these words. "M'am-" she meets Sarathiel's eyes, and thinks that the heat of her flames and the ice of her eyes go along well- "your daughter isn't into men, she's into me."

"Well yes," Sarathiel huffs, seeming even more annoyed, "that's why I'm asking when you two are getting married."

Oh.

"_That's_ what you were asking?" Rozaria's voice is of disbelief, and Raskreia understands well why for she cannot tell what is happening either.

"What else would I be asking?"

"You said that I need to stop staring at men!"

Sarathiel looked at them as if they had answered that two plus two was five. As if they were idiots in need of a lecture. Perhaps they were. "You shouldn't be ogling other people when you're in a relationship."

"Holy shit." Rozaria slumps. "You made it sound as if you wanted to marry me off. And since when did you know we were dating?"

"Marry you off?" Her mother seemed confused. "I've known since the beginning. Ludis told me."

Her witch sank even further down the armchair, groaning. How adorable. And embarrassing. To misinterpret things so severely, how had she been so ignorant? And to think that she had scared Yali for nothing! It was a pitiful affair but, she could make it better in the same way that stars made the night sky prettier and the leaves on a tree gave it the look of life.

"The second moon of the coming year."

"Huh?" Her witch didn't understand. That was fine though since her mother did as she nodded, satisfied, and walked away with Yali next to her, paws silent on the faded carpet.

"The second moon of the coming year, we shall marry." Raskreia smiled gently, looking down at her witch.

"_Oh_-" Rozaria's eyes widened as she sat up, and then she started giggling, returning the smile- "okay."


End file.
